All for One
by Court81981
Summary: Historic AU. "Un pour tous, tous pour un" Alexandre Dumas Peeta Mellark has one wish: to be a Musketeer. Katniss Everdeen will let nothing, not even her gender, stop her from fulfilling her own destiny to become one. When their paths cross, sparks fly as they vie to join the Musketeers and put a stop to a rebellious plot to assassinate the king. Banner by Ro Nordmann.
1. Prologue

_Thank you to iLoVeRynMar, streetlightlove and HGRomance for prereading and advising this story, and thanks to RoNordmann for the beautiful banner/cover!_

_Rest of notes to follow._

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_**Prologue**_

* * *

_France, 1625_

Fate is a weighty word. It requires blind trust in a higher power, an acceptance that one's destiny is fixed from the moment he or she enters the mortal world and the choices made, no matter how inconsequential or encompassing, have no bearing on the course that one's life takes. It is difficult enough for adults with logic and reason to understand, but it seems unfathomable to expect a child to fully appreciate it.

Peeta Mellark was the exception. From the moment the tall man wearing the royal blue cloak entered his father's bakery, it was as if something awakened in his little five-year-old body.

The sun filtered in through the open windows, a pleasant spring day dawning. He was sitting at the counter of the bakery, sketching with a nub of charcoal while his father grabbed the first loaves of bread from the ovens. The crumbs of a croissant littered the page and clung to the corner of his mouth. He still tasted the remnants the flaky treat on his lips as he bit his lip in concentration, trying to get the bark of the oak tree that he was drawing just right. The forest just beyond the village was one of Peeta's favorite things to draw. He wished his parents would let him go there more alone. His mother was always droning on about wild animals and always insisted that one of his brothers go along with him. Peeta thought her reasoning was foolish. Most of the forest animals he had seen were far too skittish to go anywhere near humans.

The heavy oak door to the bakery creaked open hesitantly, just barely nudging the tiny chimes that hung beside the frame. His father had strung the little bells several weeks earlier when he realized he could not depend on Peeta's older brothers to announce customers when he was in the rear of the boulangerie, tending to the ovens. Peeta's eyes widened as he took in the sight of the man stepping over the threshold of the bakery.

He wasn't terribly tall, maybe a bit taller than his own father, but the plumed hat that adorned his head made him seem gigantic. The blue tunic billowed in the breeze before the door shut behind him. Peeta's eyes traced the unusual floral pattern at the center of the garment. It looked nothing like the flowers that Papa created from hardened boiled sugar to decorate the cakes they sometimes sold for fancy occasions.

The glint of silver at the man's right hip caught the sunlight, and Peeta realized it was some kind of a fancy sword—a rapier. _A Musketeer! _His eyes widened with excitement. A real Musketeer was in his father'sboulangerie. Peeta had only seen Musketeers at a distance when the king's processional came through the village on occasion. He quickly glanced to the man's other hip, eager to spy another weapon, and it was then that he saw her.

A small girl was clutching the man's hand, her sweet face partially hidden in the folds of her father's cloak. She was wearing a simple red dress, and her dark hair was fastened into two braids on either side of her head.

Peeta had never seen anything more beautiful in his life. He stared at the girl, unable to take his eyes off her.

"Bonjour, monsieur. How can I help you this morning?" Peeta's father's voice broke into his reverie, and he dropped his charcoal to the floor. M. Mellark wiped his hands on his apron, leaving white streaks across the cornflower blue fabric as he came over to ruffle his son's blonde curls. The man removed his hat and smiled broadly at them.

"Just out for a morning stroll with my favorite girl," he started, glancing down at his daughter as she tugged on his tunic.

"Papa, I'm your only girl," she frowned. But her sparkling silver eyes told Peeta the frown wasn't a real one, and he figured out that this little girl and her papa must be quite playful together. Peeta had never seen eyes that color before. He didn't think he could create that shade of gray if he spent hours with his pastels. Even from across the bakery, they were mesmerizing.

"For at least a few more days," he laughed, twirling one of her braids around his finger. "But there is a very good chance that your maman will have a little boy, and then you'll still be my favorite girl."

"Your wife is with child?" M. Mellark grinned. "Many congratulations, monsieur. And may God keep her safe through the delivery."

"Merci." Still holding the little girl's hand, the Musketeer crossed to the counter and set his hat down. Peeta swallowed hard; the girl was now standing just several feet away from him. Her lovely eyes were even shinier up close. They reminded Peeta of the stuff that leaked out of the thermometer his father used when crafting bonbons that his brother Rheume had broken last month. How his mother had shrieked and carried on, yelling something about poison and stupidity and earning Rheume a few good swats with the leaven spoon.

"Do you see anything you want, _chérie_?" The little girl stood on her tiptoes and peered at the rows of baked goods displayed on the counter. Peeta watched her grey eyes widen as they settled on the plate of _pain au pommes._

"Is that the bread with the apples, papa?"

"Ah, milady has a sweet tooth?" M. Mellark winked at the little girl. She raised her chin.

"My maman loves the apple bread, monsieur. Papa, we should get one for her."

Her father chuckled softly. "That's my Katniss, always thinking of her maman," he laughed. "We shall take one of those, _s'il vous plait_."

_Katniss,_ Peeta thought. _Her name is Katniss_. He thought of the delicate lavender flower that grew along the banks of the lake just beyond the forest. He knew what he was going to draw tomorrow.

"Peeta, wrap one of the_ pain aux pommes _for the mademoiselle." Peeta nodded at his father's instructions and hopped off his stool, retreating to the other side of the counter. He selected the largest fruit-filled croissant, grasped it between the pastry tongs and grabbed a sheet of the heavy butcher paper in which the Mellarks wrapped all their breads. He folded the edges neatly as his father taught him and secured the bundle gently, careful not to crush the treat.

"Why don't you choose something, _mademoiselle_?" M. Mellark offered kindly. "It's my treat, a thank you for all that your brave papa does to keep our country safe."

Those enchanting eyes widened and Katniss looked up to her father, seeking permission. The musketeer laughed and tugged on one of the girl's braids. "_Allons, chérie,_ go on." She smiled and her gaze flitted from basket to basket and scanned the shelves until it lingered on the oversized flaky buns just beside where Peeta sat.

"What are those?"

He dropped his charcoal when he realized she was speaking to him, her sweet little face watching him expectantly. "Oh, these are my papa's famous _pain aux fromages_. They are stuffed with cheeses and herbs." Peeta lowered his voice. "He tells no one the secret of what herbs he uses."

"I like secrets," Katniss smiled. "I will have one of those, _s'il vous plait." _

Peeta carefully scrutinized the lot of buns, chose the largest one and handed it to her with a shy smile. Her little fingers brushed his as she took the pastry from him, and his hand tingled where they briefly touched. She thanked him and shuffled back to her father's side while he counted out some coins in his palm. The musketeer paid his father and thanked them again, and clutching his daughter's hand, Peeta watched them exit the boulangerie until he could no longer see their retreating shadows through the small window.

"Peeta, _mon fils_, did you see that man?"

He wrinkled his small nose up at his father. Of course he had seen him. Was his father daft? They had spoken to the Musketeer and his beautiful daughter. It wasn't as if they were apparitions like in the stories Rheume told him in the dark of their room at night to try to frighten him.

"Yes, Papa. He was a Musketeer."

His father nodded. "Musketeers are the bravest, most selfless men in all of France. They are sworn to protect the king. They lay down their lives if necessary."

"I want to be a musketeer one day, Papa."

M. Mellark chuckled softly and tousled Peeta's unruly blond curls. "Perhaps someday, my child. But not everyone is destined to be a Musketeer. The world needs all kinds of men. Some will fight to protect their country, and some will knead dough and bake bread, which is what I must do right now." He tightened his apron strings and walked to the rear of the bakery where several loaves were rising on the sills.

Peeta gazed at the plate of _pain aux fromages _and closed his eyes, picturing the pretty little girl again, and then his mind saw the glinting metal of the rapier.

He would not be punching dough and making pastries when he grew up.

He would be wearing the blue cloak and plumed hat and protecting the king.

He would be a Musketeer.

* * *

It was several years later on a sweltering hot summer day when his father asked him to choose several loaves of bread, some pastries, and a few cookies and carefully wrap them to be placed in a large basket.

Peeta obediently followed orders, and just as he was placing the last of the croissants in the parcel, his sight landed on the cheese buns. He selected four large buns, wrapped them and added them to the basket.

"Would you like to join me to deliver this?" his father asked gently. He shrugged, but then nodded more emphatically. It would no doubt be stifling to walk into the village or the outskirts of town—he had no idea where they were going. But the bakery was hotter than Hell itself, and a break would be welcome.

His father called his eldest brother to come tend to the shop until they returned. Hadrian was just ending his formal apprenticeship and Peeta knew he could be trusted. But Rheume—he was another story.

Peeta walked at his father's side, their quiet footsteps disturbing the dirt and kicking up dust in the stagnant air. They passed the other shops of the village and eventually came to a modest little enclave of cottages, each one tidy and neatly kept, but far smaller than Peeta's own humble home. His father approached the third house on the left, took a deep breath and rapped his knuckles gently on the warped wooden door. Peeta's gaze wandered to a cluster of dandelions growing beneath the small front window, but when the door opened, his heart lifted and a smile stole across his face.

It was the little girl with the dark pigtails, though taller, and she was just as lovely as he remembered her. But those sparkling grey eyes were no longer like polished stone; they were more like tarnished silver and furthermore, they were swollen and red, and her mouth turned down in the saddest frown Peeta had ever seen.

"_Bonjour, ma petite_." Peeta's father bowed and gave Katniss a sympathetic smile. "May we come in?" She nodded dumbly and stepped aside, her gloomy eyes avoiding theirs. Peeta's heart ached for her; he just wanted to see that smile back on her pretty face.

But as he followed his father into the home, he understood at once. Soft sobs came from a blonde woman on a chair beside a simple wooden casket, cradling a toddler with matching blonde curls. The child slept peacefully, her thumb in her mouth, unaware of the mourning going on around her. The woman glanced up and her eyes went round and she startled at the sight of Peeta's father. The little girl in her arms stirred but did not wake.

Peeta listened as the woman quietly greeted his father, and they spoke in hushed tones for several moments before the woman glanced at him and gave him a small smile, and Peeta waved half-heartedly.

He tried not to look in the casket, but his curiosity got the best of him and when he glanced over, he first saw the familiar blue of the Musketeer's tabard, as he now knew they were called. Then he recognized the handsome face of the Musketeer and his chest constricted. The reason for the sorrow etched on Katniss's face was clear to him now: the girl's father was dead.

His father spoke with the Musketeer's widow for several more minutes before he gave her an awkward hug since Katniss's little sister still slumbered in her mother's arms, and then he grabbed Peeta's hand. As they exited the house, Peeta looked over at the dandelion patch and was shocked to see Katniss sitting under the window, her back against the house, arms wrapped around her spindly legs, weeping into her knees. The wracking sobs and hiccoughs hammered at his heart and he yearned to go wrap his arms around her and hug her and tell her it would be okay—even if he suspected it would not. He could not imagine life without his father.

"Come, Peeta," his father scolded. "Let her mourn her father in peace. It is none of our business. We paid our respects to Claire."

The plaintive tone in his father's voice as he spoke her voice raised his curiosity anew, and he gave his father a perplexed look. Peeta may have only been a boy, but he understood there was more to this than honoring a fallen Musketeer.

His father knew it as well. As they began the walk back to the boulangerie, he cleared his throat. "I was in love with that woman when we were young. She was a beautiful lady."

Peeta's eyes widened and he stared at his father. "What happened, Papa?"

His father chuckled ruefully. "She fell in love with another man—the Musketeer you just saw in his casket."

"What happened to him, Papa?" Peeta asked.

"I did not ask Claire that. It would have been inappropriate to pry in such a time,_ mon fils. _All I know of her husband's death is what I heard in the bakery the other morning from several of our customers."

Peeta had heard the fevered buzz of conversation just yesterday morning that the king had been assassinated; the entire country was in mourning for their slain monarch. Several of the gossipy women who came by the bakery frequently had said there were rumors that one of the king's own men—a Musketeer—may have betrayed him. But an older man who was missing nearly all his teeth had hushed the women immediately, harshly telling them to mind their own business and not to speak ill of the deceased. Two Musketeers had also lost their lives in the siege, and Peeta now knew one was Katniss's father.

It was a sobering realization just how dangerous being a king's bodyguard could be.

But it did nothing to quell Peeta's desperate wish to join the sacred _esprit de corps_ when he turned sixteen.

On the contrary, it reignited it.

* * *

From her place slumped under the window of her house, Katniss Everdeen watched the kind-hearted baker and his son walk away hand in hand, and she drew a shuddering gulp of air into her lungs before another torrent of tears fell into her lap and were absorbed by the fabric of her dress. It was not fair. She would never again hold her father's hand. She felt a sudden welling of anger towards the handsome young boy who had given her that cheese bun years ago. His father baked bread. _Her _father protected an entire country. And it had cost him his life—no matter what anyone said about him failing to do his job.

She hadn't understood when the messenger had knocked on their cottage door two days earlier and delivered a large parchment scroll to her mother. Her mother's piercing scream had actually shattered a clay pot on the shelf nearest to the door, and she had collapsed in a heap and did not rouse again until the elderly woman in the cottage adjacent to theirs had waved a bouquet of foul-smelling herbs under her nose.

It was not until the four men arrived at the cottage bearing the wooden box and she laid eyes on her father's lifeless face that she finally grasped the reality of that scroll: her beloved papa was dead. The grey eyes so like her own were hidden by closed lids that would never lift hence. The Musketeers—her father's sworn brethren—all addressed her mother and removed those black-plumed hats and bowed solemnly before turning to her and bowing gently. One of them, a man who was not that much taller than her mother, had dark hair and grey eyes like hers and a very ruddy complexion. He gently cupped her cheek and placed his hat on her head, the large headpiece sliding down over her eyes as he offered her his condolences.

The oldest-looking of the men assured her mother that they would be taken care of and spoke many nice words about her father, cautioning her mother about the vicious rumors that could circulate about the circumstances of the deaths and the murderous plot against the king. The fact that anyone could even think her father would do such a thing infuriated Katniss and heated the blood in her veins.

"I will avenge your death, Papa," she whispered, eyes trained up on the hazy blue summer sky. "One day, I will make you proud."

It would not stop Katniss that she was female and thus would not be permitted to seek such a position. Once she put her mind to something, there was nothing that could stop her stubborn, irascible soul from achieving her goal.

One way or another, she would find a way to don that blue cloak.

She would be a Musketeer.

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_**A/N-**So this prologue was originally part of the Fandom 4 LLS collection back in September, and though most of those stories posted in December, I have been waiting to post this prologue for two reasons. 1) I needed to make more progress on my other WIPs before I began posting this new historic, as antsy as I have been to do that, and 2) I wanted to post on 1/1/14, since my first fic, A Favorable Wind, posted on 1/1/13. I like synergy, what can I say. (For those of you who have the collection, my other submission will not be posted in the near future. I am aiming for late Spring for that.)_

_As you can see, this story is based on the classic tale of The Three Musketeers (I watch the Chris O'Donnell one over and over again, cause that man gives me Peeta feels) AND I've fused in the concept behind Shakespeare in Love. That will unfold eventually. _

_Windfall and Crash My Party will be updated soon, and I have one last bday gift coming in the very near future for one of my very favorite people._

_2014 will bring us Mockingjay Part I (ow my heart already hurts) but if you are looking for a great MJ AU I highly recommend "Random Reality Shifts" by Wake by the River. I'm always hesitant to read MJ AUs until they are complete, but this one sucked me in. Give it a try._

_Thank you for reading. Happy New Year everyone. Thank you for the follows, favorites, and reviews that you showered me with in 2013. I am beyond grateful for the support. I look forward to hearing what you think of this one...~Court~_


	2. Chapter 1

_**Author's Note-**Thank you for the positive response to the prologue of this story! I'm happy so many of you are excited for this, and I am getting itchy to really delve into this. Historical fics are so much fun, but they are certainly a beast to tame._

_This chapter is dedicated to one of the pinnacles of this fandom, HGRomance. It seemed fitting that since our friendship started on historical grounds with her beautiful Legend, and her support of my first historic A Favorable Wind deepened it, that I offer her this update as the first of two presents. Consider this your early treat, my friend. The other will eventually find its way here, but for now, it will only be on Street's tumblr tomorrow in honor of your official birthday. Happy Birthday, you star. Thank you for all that you bring to this fandom. You are a gift. _

_Many thanks as always to iLoVeRynMar and streetlightlove for their love and support and help with this story. _

_THG belongs to Suzanne Collins; the original tale of the Three Musketeers belongs to A. Dumas._

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_**~France, 1636~**_

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_**~Peeta~**_

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"I swear I did nothing more than kiss her, Gloss!" I gasp as the sword thrusts at me viciously. "And it was entirely her idea! She kissed me! You can ask her yourself!"

The burly blond man takes another menacing step towards me. He parries, and I suck in my stomach and lunge to my left, grunting as he continues advancing.

"You lie, fiend," he hisses. "My sister would never so cavalierly throw herself at a man when she is betrothed to another."

I nearly drop my sword. "She intends to marry another? She most certainly did _not_ tell me that!"

I should have known better. When the voluptuous blonde had cornered me behind my father's boulangerie earlier that morning, my inexperienced lips took much coaxing from hers. She had been overly eager and her hands had roamed my body as if I were some kind of uncharted land she was desperate to claim as hers. As our kisses had continued, she had gotten a little too zealous with her moans of approval and thus, our clandestine rendezvous had not been secret for long. Unfortunately for me, it had been her brother who discovered us, which led to the quandary in which I currently find myself.

"Moreover," I exclaim, edging onto the stone arch that bridges one side of the meadow to the other over a babbling creek that swells with an influx of spring rains. It's not a long way down, but with one move the wrong way, a fall at any distance could be fatal. "Should not her intended be here challenging me to duel, defending her honor, rather than her brother? What kind of man is your future brother-in-law to leave this to your hands?"

Gloss's nostrils flare, his anger blanching his face before a deep scarlet flush usurps the chalky hue and he roars, rushing towards me anew. "How dare you speak ill of my family! You are a charlatan, Peeta Mellark!"

"You need not be concerned with me, Gloss," I reply, meeting his next thrust with a clang from my own sword. "I have no designs on your sister, this I swear to you. I am leaving for Paris in the morning, and I shall never cross Cashmere's path hereafter. Indeed, she was merely giving me a going-away embrace when she heard my intentions to leave this village."

"Paris?" he sneers. "What's in Paris for a simple baker's son like you?"

I growl and strike at his left shoulder, sliding to my right as he deflects the blow. "The Musketeers."

"You? A Musketeer?" His sword stills at his side, and he laughs scornfully. "That is the most amusing thing I have heard in days. You are not fit to hold the rapier of a Musketeer! You can barely wield that tarnished sword of which you're so proud."

"I wield it more handily than you." As if to illustrate my point, I slice the blade through the air, narrowly missing the golden locks that reach his shoulders, and his curls flounce from the gust of air my sword raises. He gasps and regains his balance, reaffirming his grip on the hilt of his sword. With a raucous shout, he charges at me again.

Nimbly, my feet crisscross back and forth behind me as I back down off the stone arch and onto solid ground again. Gloss pursues me and our swords clash noisily once more. When he lunges to his left, I seize the chance to thrust my sword beneath his, and to my relief, the weapon tumbles from his grasp, leaving him completely at my mercy. His throat bobs and his chest heaves from the shallow breaths he draws, and slowly he raises his hands in surrender, sinking to his knees. He bows his head and murmurs an audible though indiscernible prayer.

Then he lifts his chin to meet my eyes defiantly. "My future brother-in-law and my kin will avenge me."

I laugh heartily and subtly jab the tip of my sword near his throat but place no pressure on the weapon. "Now that, my friend, amuses me. Had your cowardly brother-in-law come here himself in the first place you would not be in this predicament."

"We are not friends," he snarls. His blue eyes glitter dangerously before they disappear behind his lowered eyelids. "Have mercy on me. Make it fast, I pray you."

A thundering rises beyond the hill, and I turn my head in the direction of the din. My eyes widen as four large men on horseback materialize and gallop swiftly towards us. Fear crests in my stomach at the speed and menace with which they approach, and from the renewed hope in Gloss's eyes, it's an easy conclusion to draw that these men are in fact his aforementioned kin.

In haste, I pull back my sword, slide it easily into its scabbard, and rush towards my own horse. With an expert vault, I settle astride the animal's back, spur my heels into his side and hold tight as he canters off through the countryside, his pace increasing with each of my subsequent impassioned commands.

Using one hand to jam my hat down over my blond curls, I hold the reigns tightly, periodically glancing behind me. Gloss has joined the four men, bringing up the rear, and he continues to rant about his sister's honor. I knew that the pretty blonde woman wasn't worth all this trouble. Her future husband will need to fit her with a chastity belt if he hopes to keep her libidinous desires fixed on him alone. I don't even fancy blondes.

"You cannot escape us, Peeta Mellark!" Gloss's voice rings out.

We race across the meadow, parallel to the narrow, crystalline brook that meanders through the tall grasses, approaching the outskirts of the village. Darting another peek behind me, my pulse hiccoughs as I observe Gloss and his kin rapidly closing the gap between us. The furious rhythm of my horse's hooves on the worn path cannot match the wild gallop of my heartbeat as my eyes land on a sharp dip off to the side of the dirt road. Glancing ahead, I realize the dip leads to a dilapidated barn. Perhaps I can use this little detour to my advantage.

"Yah!" I tug the reigns, and my horse responds, veering right and easing his stride as he canters down the rise and I guide him into the rotting structure. To my disappointment, I hear voices. Gloss and the others are on my trail.

I am growing increasingly anxious to end their pursuit of me so that I can begin my ride to Paris. The city is a good day's ride from here, and if I continue to expend my energy—and my horse's—dealing with Gloss and his nearly cuckolded brother-in-law, it will certainly take longer than that.

Once I reach the edge of the barn and burst into the bright sunshine, I squint as the village comes into sight. My heart lifts when I see several men toiling to repair a thatched roof just ahead. A large cart stands nearby bearing rows of neatly chopped logs, and a devious smile creeps onto my lips as an idea germinates and blooms.

Giving a quick glance behind me, I estimate the timing needed for the first strike when Gloss and the other four emerge from the barn. I draw my sword, adjusting my grip on the reigns with my other hand, and I smack my sword as hard as I can against the rear of the cart. A great splintering crack precedes the rumbling of the logs cascading from their confines as they spill directly into the path of my pursuers.

Gloss reacts quickly enough to issue a command and leap from the onslaught, but two of his kin are not as lucky. Their horses rear up and whinny loudly. One lands directly on several skittering logs, throwing its rider into a nearby pile of manure. The second disobeys his own rider's frantic calls and veers left when the man leaps right, and he too tumbles from the horse's back.

I inhale deeply and continue forward, preparing for the next attack. The excitement of the whole scene has supplanted any other emotions that may have been swirling within me for the moment, and my veins sizzle with energy.

The men working on the roof thatching are using some sort of lever-and-pulley contraption to haul the hay skyward. Timing will again be critical, and as I ride past them, I count silently and lunge up, the sharp blade of my sword neatly severing the rope encircling the bales. One of the workingmen yells and utters a curse as the hay plummets towards the ground just as Gloss and his remaining two kin gallop under it. One bale scores a direct strike on the tallest rider, sending him sprawling off his horse, and the animal spirits away. Two more bales block the fourth horse's path, stopping him short. Its rider yelps and flies over the horse's head, his hat coming off as he lands hard on the scrabbled dirt.

"Yes," I breathe to no one but myself, and I dig my heels in, encouraging my horse to resume his earlier pace. Now just Gloss rides behind me, his eyes blazing with rage. Murmurs of astonishment and irritation rise above the din as I ride past, and from an upper window of a large house near the edge of the square I hear my name being called. Cashmere leans out and blows me a kiss.

Without another glimpse back at her, I tug on the reins and ride on, but as I fix my gaze on the road, my eyes go round at the sight before me. A massive rotted tree, carpeted with spongy mosses and festooned with wildflowers, arches over the road. The space beneath it is not sufficient for me to clear underneath it, nor can my horse to manage to leap over it. I have but one choice unless I fancy Gloss overtaking me and resuming the duel he had initiated in the meadow. At this point, I want nothing more than to get to Paris.

I take a deep breath and steady my feet as I gauge the rapidly-closing distance to the tree then I carefully bring my legs up to stand on my horse's back. Balance has never been my forte, but I say a silent prayer, prepare to jump and just as I reach the felled tree, I leap onto it, take one quick step, and launch myself onto my horse as he reappears from under the log. The landing is hard, and pain shoots through my groin, but relief washes over me as I turn to regard Gloss. He is wobbling astride the back of his own horse, but his timing is not as impeccable as mine; when he jumps onto the log, he misjudges the speed of his horse, and the animal has already passed when he springs down to remount it. He bounces near the rear of the horse and slides down, landing with a thud. I release the breath I had been holding, and my face breaks into a triumphant grin. Gloss rises, brushes the dirt off his breeches, and shakes his fist furiously at me.

"You best not show your face in this village ever again, Peeta Mellark!"

I remove my hat and bow sardonically as best as I can manage astride my horse. "Oh, I shall, Gloss. And when I do, you shall be bowing at the feet of a famous Musketeer!" I replace the hat on my head, smirk, and gallop off through the countryside with the wind whipping my curls, and my white shirt flapping in the breeze.

Paris, here I come.

* * *

_**~Katniss~**_

* * *

"Catnip, I told you, this is a bad idea."

"Shut up, Gale." I wrap the tattered canvas cloak tighter around my frame and hunching down into a ball. "No one will know that I am here unless you are caught talking to a cluster of barrels. And then it's just as likely you'll earn a trip to the asylum. So leave me and go into the courtyard."

Gale lifts the edge of the fabric, and I see his grey eyes peering out from underneath the brim of his plumed hat, directed at me in typical scorn. "When will you get it through your thick skull that there is no way in hell that you can do this?"

"When Hell freezes over," I reply. "So no time soon. Now go."

The cloak flaps down and drapes me in darkness anew, and I hear his exasperated huff and heated mumbles as his footsteps fade. My nose twitches and I feel a sneeze coming on from the stale, musty aroma permeating the cloth around me. I inhale sharply and fight the tickle, but it overcomes me, and I pray no one in the vicinity hears me.

I don't need a reminder of the danger that should befall me if I am caught skulking around on the grounds of the king's castle, but Gale's stubborn determination to prevent me from fulfilling my destiny falls on deaf ears as usual. Why should he be the only one to wear that cloak and wield the rapier of the Musketeers when _both_ our fathers gave their lives all those years ago, and it's merely Gale's fortune that he was born with the right genitalia between his legs?

Gale was two years older than I when an assassination plot against the previous king—our current king's grandfather—was successfully carried out, and his father and my father were killed in the ensuing melee. Together we watched our mothers mourn their fallen husbands and endure the vicious gossip that implied one or both of our fathers were in on the heinous conspiracy. At the time, I knew not the details, but it infuriated me that my father was being slandered without a means to defend himself. He should have been permitted to rest in peace, and we were denied the right to properly mourn him.

Gale was even more incensed; he did not take his father's death well. He has always been quick to anger. As a child, he took it out on his younger brothers, but as he got older, he nearly always channeled his rage into dueling.

We both did, really. For me, it was a natural outlet for my aggression, not to mention a means of feeling close to my father with him no longer on this earthly plain. He had always wielded his rapier so masterfully, and had taught me the proper way to hold the weapon at a very young age despite my mother's protestations that it was not a ladylike thing for me to learn. I further honed my skills play-dueling Gale, and it is why I am so confident that if given the chance, I could out-duel most men, even those twice my age and my size.

A commotion rises as a brief trumpet processional plays and then all grows quiet. I strain my ears so I can catch everything that will be revealed to the assembled Musketeers.

"Messieurs." The sharp timber of the Comte de Crane's voice reaches my ears loud and clear. I struggle to raise the image of Cardinal Snow's_ écurie _before my eyes as he begins to speak. I have only seen the man once, and all that I recall is the elaborate beard that I suspect he only grooms in such a manner so as to obscure the large scar that dominates the left side of his face.

"Thank you for gathering in such a prompt manner. I am afraid that I do not have better news to relate to you, _mes frères._ It is to my great distress that on this morning I must announce to you the official disbandment of the Musketeers."

He sounds not the least bit distressed. I imagine he is fighting to suppress a smirk on that scarred face of his. There is an immediate roar of protest and shouts of anger resonate from the assembled Musketeers, which I know to be a number near two hundred. A litany of questions ring out, but one is repeated by a multitude of disparate voices:

"Who will protect the king?"

"This was not a decision that was arrived at hastily, messieurs," Crane continues. "His Royal Highness consulted at length with Cardinal Snow and this remains what is best for all of France. War with England is inevitable, and so there shall be a more pressing need for the services of virile, able men such as yourselves. Your Majesty the King will greatly appreciate your loyalty in defending all of France, and not just him in this most dire time. For the present moment, Cardinal Snow's personal bodyguards will assume the additional duties of protecting the king."

I stifle a snort of disdain. The Cardinal's corps cannot possibly number more than fifty. How can a small group of men provide the same protection that the experience that nearly five times that of trained musketeers offers? The reasoning is beyond ludicrous to me, but King Boggs is a kind, mild-mannered, well-respected man, and I begrudgingly admit that he would do nothing less than what he feels is best for his people and his country. If he discussed this with his counsel, it must be what he feels is necessary.

But the lingering grumbles of the Musketeers and the dark oaths that manage to reach my ears in my concealed location incite a wave of panic in me: if there are no more Musketeers, how am I to become one? How am I to fulfill a destiny that no longer ceases to be?

"This is unacceptable!" a voice rings out. "We took a vow!"

"And now you're being relieved of that vow," Crane barks.

My curiosity simmers over and I push back the cloak just enough to shift my body so that I can peer between two of the larger barrels. My new vantage gives me a perfect view of the balcony from which Crane speaks, though he appears little more than a miniature to me at this distance. He is dressed all in black from head to toe, including a showy black plumed hat not unlike those the Musketeers wear, but naturally it's even larger.

I scan the courtyard, my eyes flitting over the scores of Musketeers standing and staring up at Crane. Though most of their backs are to me, a few that stand relatively close to where I am concealed have their heads lowered together conspiratorially, and I can see the ire smoldering in their poisonous gazes. If looks could kill, the Comte de Crane would be plunging off that balcony one hundred times over.

"Messieurs, it seems that many of you are not getting the message. The Musketeers are no more. You are ordered to remove your tabards, leave your rapiers and return to your homes to await orders from the king. Anyone who chooses not to follow these three simple commands will be arrested and charged with treason. It is that simple. We have no tolerance for traitors."

I swallow at the menacing tone that affects his final sentence and then hold my breath, waiting for someone to make a move. I am so transfixed on the scene before me that I do not even register the cloak being roughly pulled from me, and Gale's rough hand on my shoulder.

"Catnip, we have to go. Now." He hauls me to my feet and seizes my hand.

As he drags me off, I catch sight of the flames licking up a massive pile of sticks and straw, a pyre igniting in the center of the courtyard. The first Musketeer approaches the inferno, deliberately yanking his blue tunic from his body and tossing it onto the fire. He drops his rapier with a resounding clatter on the stones, and silently, the remaining Musketeers begin to follow suite.

All but Gale.

As we run from the palace, I hear the clear, condescending timber of Crane call out, "That's right, messieurs. One for all and all for one. _Merci._ Cardinal Snow thanks you, and all of France shall owe you a debt of gratitude."

I clutch desperately at my billowing skirt with one hand, the other firmly held by my best friend, and I notice he still wears his Musketeer tabard and his rapier is still at his side.

"Gale…"

He hauls me behind the small chapel just to the west of the palace, and I struggle to catch my breath as he first yanks off his hat and tosses it away, then pulls off his tunic and wads it into a tight ball. He shoves it at me.

"Put this under your gown. Now."

I gape at him, my brows knit in confusion. "H-How?" Motioning to the tiny waist my corseted gown emphasizes, I hesitate to obey his order. "I don't think that it will fit."

"Do it, Katniss."

I bite my lip and lean down, lifting the full skirts of my gown and positioning the lumpy garment under the dropped waist as best I can. I wrinkle my nose at the sight. I know that it should appear that I am with child, but no one in his or her right mind would venture a glance at me and think an actual human baby would be this misshapen.

"Gale, what—"

He cuts me short again. "Later," he admonishes me. "We need to get to safety. They'll be looking for me."

"You didn't—"

"Katniss!" he hisses sharply. "Enough. We'll talk when we get to a safe place."

I press my lips together and fall mute. The fact that Gale used my actual name not once but twice, not to mention he does not even attempt to gest at my preposterous appearance, indicates how severe he feels the danger is. I draw another gasp of air and my lungs begin to sear from the effort of taking breaths, no easy task given the restrictive corset beneath my gown.

Gale is much taller than I, and his strides are easily twice the length of mine. Plus I have to cradle the faux bump beneath my dress so that Gale's tunic does not slip down between my legs. I snicker at the thought; it would be the closest that I shall ever come to childbirth, and no doubt the easiest.

I am wheezing heavily when we finally slow to a brisk walk once Gale decides we are an acceptable distance from the palace. Gale reaches for my hand and squeezes it lightly, giving me a weak smile, and he gestures to my mid-section. "I'll take that back now."

Exhaling loudly, I grin and smash my fist into the bundle, and it's easily wrested from above my navel, landing with a soft swish at my feet. I kick it towards Gale with a gentle nudge. He retrieves it, flounces it out in front of him, and tucks it under his arm like a parcel.

"Gale, why didn't you throw your tabard onto the fire and leave your weapon behind like the others? What's going on?" I ask gently.

His eyes have taken on a molten glaze to them, and I know him well enough to comprehend this is a sign of his temper flaring. "I am a Musketeer, Catnip," he retorts. "And I'll be damned if that sycophant Crane will strip me of my life's blood. I swore to protect the king, and that is what I shall do. Now come along. We need to go warn the other two."

* * *

_**~The Chambers of Cardinal Snow, Paris~**_

* * *

"What shall we do with this, Your Eminence?"

Cardinal Snow turns from where he has been pacing just inside the open doors that lead to his balcony. When his eyes land on the enormous tapestry held between two of his guards, his lips curl into a devious smile. "Burn it."

The two guards exchange a glance, shrug and shuffle towards the fire roaring in the hearth of Snow's private chambers. With a grunt from both, they heave the flag bearing the Musketeers' insignia and motto onto the greedy flames. Tongues of orange and black lick at the heavy fabric as it catches fire, devouring it slowly until it is nothing but a pile of ash.

Snow resumes his pacing, his eyes scanning the scene through the billowing curtains. From his chambers he does not have a direct view of the balcony from which Crane is addressing the Musketeers, but he can hear the voice of his _écurie _well enough if he lingers just inside the doors.

He does, however, have a perfect view of the sprawling courtyard, and as his eyes dart among his guards, clad in red tunics, intermittently positioned amidst a sea of blue-cloaked Musketeers, he idly fingers his cross. He is fraught with anticipation as to how the assembled men will take the shocking revelation that they have been relieved of their duties. Part of him yearns for them to rebel and resist so he can have them all imprisoned and wash his hands of them in one fell swoop. That would make his plot even easier to carry out.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the first Musketeer approach the pyre. The man's attention is clearly directed at Crane, and he rips his tunic from his person and flings it onto the fire. He drops his rapier beside the conflagration, and with a flourish he turns and hastens past his sworn brothers.

The smile spreads on Crane's lips as one by one a pile of blue fleur-de-lis adorned tabards join the first and are consumed by flames. The stack of rapiers grows as well.

He drops the cross back against his chest and steeples his fingers before him. Excellent. Though he would have relished the chance to arrest everyone and have a processional to the chopping block in two days hence, a relatively peaceful surrender is equally reassuring. Things are progressing just as he planned.

After several pregnant moments, he hears footfalls on the stone and turns to see Crane and two more of his guards enter his chambers.

Crane removes his hat as he approaches and reaches for Snow's hand. He bows as he brushes his lips over the gnarled knuckles. "Your Eminence."

"I trust that there was no rioting when you made the proclamation, Captain Crane?

Crane straightens and returns his hat to his head then clears his throat and strokes the point of his beard thoughtfully. "They were certainly taken by surprise, Your Eminence. After some initial discourse, yes, most submitted to the order."

Snow's cold blue eyes glitter dangerously. "Did you say most, Captain? Not _all_?"

"No, not all," he agrees begrudgingly. "There are three."

"Three what?"

"Three Musketeers who are unaccounted for." He motions towards the two guards who flank him, one of which holds a large parchment roll.

"We dispatched several men to go in search of them. We are awaiting their return, Your Eminence," the taller of the two guards declares.

Snow purses his puffy lips and crosses to the open doors, pulling them shut with a clatter. "You are dismissed," he barks to all of his guards. The two near the hearth and the two beside Crane move swiftly. "Close that chamber door behind you!" he adds with a sneer.

Deliberately he walks to Crane and lowers his voice. "There are to be no loose ends this time, Captain Crane. Need I remind you just how high the stakes are?"

"I understand," he replies simply.

"It would be a shame if the search party cannot produce these three errant Musketeers, wouldn't it?" He leans in and extends a finger, tracing the line of the scar curving along Crane's cheek just above the skin. "I would hate to have to give you a matching set, Captain." His mouth lifts and mimes slitting his throat. "Or perhaps worse. Take care of them."

He spins on his heel, crimson robe whirling behind him as he stalks from the room.

Crane exhales shakily and walks purposefully to a large oak table where a brass candelabra stands, bearing three white candles. He adjusts them in the cups and with a fluid motion slices his rapier through the air. As he pushes the point of the sword to each candle, they fall to the table in succession. "Haymitch. Finnick. Gale."

He sweeps the severed candles to the floor and stomps viciously on the third, which splinters into waxy shards.

"I will not allow another Hawthorne to get in my way this time," he vows.


End file.
